Nothing moves or throws a shadow
in the house that is a rough approximation
of a house, a hurried rendering

lacking detail or warmth, a sense only
of walls and doors. He wonders why he doesn’t
simply fall and keep falling as he stands

at the window and sees just himself
looking back. No dresser bangs his bad knee,
no clock times his staggered steps down

the hall to the kitchen, hollow as a gourd,
where a candle stub finds a single dropped shoe,
before a closing door steals that away too.